The door swung open to the empty hut, and Issorm stumbled inside, then quickly turned around and pushed his body up against it, holding it closed. His hair was long and knotted, and it hung down around his shoulders. He wore a shirt of thick leather, which was ripped and cut here and there, and stained with fresh blood in places. His legs were covered with material in much the same condition, and around his waist hung a belt that looked like it could hold many instruments of travel and battle. But it was empty now. He had a wide, unshaven face, but a look of fear or desperation pervaded his eyes. He sucked in air over and over, trying to be as quiet as possible.
Finally, he left the door, and tried to peer through a crack in the wood around a window. Sunlight streamed in, but he couldn't see anything. He turned away quickly, his hair whipping around, and began looking around the room. The hut was a small wooden house with one room and no furniture. There were piles of discarded pieces of wood and trash, which he began quickly sifting through.
"A weapon. I need a weapon. I need a weapon..." He kept repeating to himself, while continually looking out the window. Finally, he picked up a long steel rod. It was about three feet long and had good weight. He had no idea about its original purpose, but he picked it up and gave it a practice swing around the room. "This is good." He said as he held it firmly in both of his hands.
The only thing that he could see outside was other huts, and some of the tall brush that grew everywhere in this desert. But he could hear the shouting of the Plainsmen. He didn't understand their language, but he knew that they must be looking for him. His men had struck at dawn, having traveled for two days straight to mount a surprise attack. They had estimated there to be about ten Plainsmen living here, and they had attacked with thirty strong men. With the advantage of surprise, they had been able to strike down about half of the Plainsmen, but the remaining five had scattered around their huts and taken down his men one by one, until he could see no more of his own men.
Issorm wasn't sure if he was able to run into the hut unseen, but he hoped he had. He was peeking around to look out for remaining Plainsman, but hoping to see one of his own warriors. He knew the Plainsmen were only human, but no one would know it in a battle against one of them. Especially when they outnumber their opponent, which it would seem they did at the moment. He couldn't be sure, but he had to assume that he was the only one alive. No one was coming to rescue him here.
The Plainsmen didn't fight with any weapons. The blows of their fists were like a battering ram, and their kicks were like the attacks of a beast. It seemed as though their attacks landed before they actually did, and lightning eminated from their fingers upon the impact. But when Issorm had struck one down with a sword, he fell limp to the ground like anyone else.
Finally, almost at the same time, he saw both of the things he was looking for. There were two of the Plainsmen walking from hut to hut peeking in windows and stepping softly on the sandy ground. But he also spotted one of his own with his back up against the wall of one of the huts. Issorm knew that he didn't stand a chance, especially because, as he likely didn't know, there were two Plainsmen coming up around his corner. One on one, the Plainsmen had an advantage, but it wasn't an impossible fight; however, one against two was an impossible fight for a single man.
He watched. He couldn't do anything to help. If he stepped out, they would kill him for sure. At least if he got a good strike in and surprised them, then Issorm could jump out behind them. He could see them clearly now. The Plainsmen wore red and blue robes, and a strap that hung around their shoulders as a pack to carry things. They were dark in complexion, and most of them kept their heads shaved. Their feet moved through the cold morning sand coming around the corner, the two of them walking near each other, their legs crouched as they walked, ready for an attack.
As they rounded the corner, Issorm clenching the steel rod in one hand and the door ready to swing open with the other. His warrior lunged forward with a clean jab that drove directly through one of the Plainsmen's chest before he could turn. Red, mortal blood covered the tip of the metal that showed through his chest, but the other's lightning reflexes had him ducking and then pouncing toward him in an instant, knocking him backward and out of view.
At this, Issorm flung the door open and charged at the Plainsman.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Synth: Day Two of the Snow
Synth lay awake on a small carpet in the middle of the shrine. He stared at the light that was coming in around the edges of the window and the door frame, signifying that morning had arrived. It wasn't sunny, he didn't expect it to be sunny for a quite awhile yet, but it was merely the light of morning that was shining in. To him, it had felt like a long time since he had seen any light, since he didn't sleep at all that night.
Last night was weird, Synth mused, shaking his head and sitting up. He stood to open the window, hoping that the morning light and air would clear the fog from his head that seemed to make his memories of the night before so unbelievable and dreamlike. The landscape was a smooth, white terrain that fell off sharply at the edge of the peak, and then continued far, far beyond into the distance. There were no footprints, nor anything else to clarify to Synth what was dreamt the night before, and what occured. But what might the snow be covering?
The morning air and light weren't helping; his memory was still telling him the same things that it had been telling him all night.
Last night was weird, Synth mused, shaking his head and sitting up. He stood to open the window, hoping that the morning light and air would clear the fog from his head that seemed to make his memories of the night before so unbelievable and dreamlike. The landscape was a smooth, white terrain that fell off sharply at the edge of the peak, and then continued far, far beyond into the distance. There were no footprints, nor anything else to clarify to Synth what was dreamt the night before, and what occured. But what might the snow be covering?
The morning air and light weren't helping; his memory was still telling him the same things that it had been telling him all night.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Synth: Day One of the Snow
Synth sat atop the peak of the shrine roof, which stood atop the peak of a spike along the spine of The Great Beast.
The roof was covered with red tiles, although now they couldn't be seen beneath the thick layer of glistening snow. The sky was an endless expanse of dark gray; the snow was still falling lightly. This morning it had begun falling intensely to mark the first Day of the Snow. It lay now in mounds on everything the eye could see.
Around him, the land fell away into a fog, and then shot up again south of him. This peak was surrounded by his home village, down in the fog. He had lived his entire life there. His family had too, for generations beyond memory. He knew that there were other villages farther south around the peaks that could be seen on the clearest days, but he had never gone personally. Some in his village traveled to trade with them. They made few things that could be used by him or most of the other villagers. Nonetheless, Synth always loved it when the traders returned, because, although the only useful things that were brought back to the village were things that he wouldn't benefit from-- spices and sented candles for burning--, the traders always brought back stories. These people of the south were story tellers, and poetry writers, and riddle makers! The traders brought back bizarre stories of things that were older than memory. Synth always loved to hear these things, although he knew, as his family reminded him, that they were only fantasies.
So it was that he was disappointed that the snow had begun to fall this morning, as the traders were expected to return this day. It took him all morning to make his daily journey from the village to the shrine to carry out his duties, and he had made it just in time before the snow began it's purge from the sky. So he had stayed here all day, and would stay the night tonight.
He rotated his body around the other way. As he moved, the snow that had gathered atop his old cloak fell into his lap, and he shook it off with a hand. He stared northward. He could see other, smaller peaks, disappearing off into the snowy fog of the darkening night. He knew of no villages to the north. In fact, no one knew of much of anything to the north. Northward, the land sloped gently downward, and it was assumed that somewhere eventually there was a great sea to the north... but no one had ventured north of the Shrine of Privilege, where he now sat.
The only thing that disturbed the snow was a set of footprints which led away from Synth, along the rooftop, and back down inside the shrine. But even these were beginning to fade as fresh flakes fell on them. It had been a long time since he had been caught in the snow, unable to go home. He hadn't had to sleep in the shrine for a long many seasons, and he had tried to avoid doing so because of that last experience he'd had.
Upon recalling that experience, Synth felt shivers crawl up his back. He remembered that he shouldn't be out at night, and that he needed to go inside the shrine and lock the doors. He'd been sitting and thinking here too long, and the sun had set unseen behind the clouds without his noticing.
He tried to quietly bring himself to his feet, but as he turned his head, he saw what he feared; there were small footprints leading up and down the roof to where his back had been turned. They were small, and would probably be seen as those of a baby's to anyone else. There was no sign of them now, and he expected to hear no sound of them, but he couldn't also expect it to stay that way. He shuffled back to the edge of the roof, toward the ladder which leant there on the edge, but before he could reach it, it slipped from view.
He saw something scurry off in the shadows below, just before he saw the ladder land on its side, with a clink, but he could see nothing clearly in the fog and snow. He looked around him as he began to hear sounds of scurrying and heavy breathing all around the edge of the roof. He took steps slowly backward, inching back up the rooftop, until he saw one small hand, which could be described as human except for it's color. It was as black as night, as if it were made of nothing but ashes, and it clung to the edge of the roof. Behind it, a face began to rise, but this bore no resemblance to any man or woman. It had large eyes, but very little of it could be seen, nor had ever been seen. These were the creatures of the Northlands, and they didn't venture as far as the village, but occasionally they were seen around this shrine. That was why Synth wasn't supposed to stay there overnight, and if he must, he should be shut in until dawn.
His memory of these creatures ended with his being able to outrun them, as they were rather slow, and running into the protection of the shrine walls. He couldn't see now how this situation could end with any protection. He was much too high to jump to the ground, although he might as a last resort, risking many broken bones.
But now, he realized, that was nearly out of the question, as the creatures poured up onto the roof like thick, black jelly dripping upwards. They moved like shadows, longer and thinner than seemed natural, and he could hear their hungry breathing all around him. There were too many to count, as they blended together to his eyes, but they were enough for him to see that there was no break in their line. They were smart somehow, he realized with another shiver, and he wouldn't get out of this unharmed. He quickly counted off options in his mind, until there was no other choice.
The creatures were short, standing on two legs, but not coming nearly to his shoulders. He ran at them, readying himself to leap headlong over them, and then brace himself for a painful impact on the rocky ground below, but he lost his footing on the slippery wet tile, and found himself tumbling toward the knees of one of the creatures.
The roof was covered with red tiles, although now they couldn't be seen beneath the thick layer of glistening snow. The sky was an endless expanse of dark gray; the snow was still falling lightly. This morning it had begun falling intensely to mark the first Day of the Snow. It lay now in mounds on everything the eye could see.
Around him, the land fell away into a fog, and then shot up again south of him. This peak was surrounded by his home village, down in the fog. He had lived his entire life there. His family had too, for generations beyond memory. He knew that there were other villages farther south around the peaks that could be seen on the clearest days, but he had never gone personally. Some in his village traveled to trade with them. They made few things that could be used by him or most of the other villagers. Nonetheless, Synth always loved it when the traders returned, because, although the only useful things that were brought back to the village were things that he wouldn't benefit from-- spices and sented candles for burning--, the traders always brought back stories. These people of the south were story tellers, and poetry writers, and riddle makers! The traders brought back bizarre stories of things that were older than memory. Synth always loved to hear these things, although he knew, as his family reminded him, that they were only fantasies.
So it was that he was disappointed that the snow had begun to fall this morning, as the traders were expected to return this day. It took him all morning to make his daily journey from the village to the shrine to carry out his duties, and he had made it just in time before the snow began it's purge from the sky. So he had stayed here all day, and would stay the night tonight.
He rotated his body around the other way. As he moved, the snow that had gathered atop his old cloak fell into his lap, and he shook it off with a hand. He stared northward. He could see other, smaller peaks, disappearing off into the snowy fog of the darkening night. He knew of no villages to the north. In fact, no one knew of much of anything to the north. Northward, the land sloped gently downward, and it was assumed that somewhere eventually there was a great sea to the north... but no one had ventured north of the Shrine of Privilege, where he now sat.
The only thing that disturbed the snow was a set of footprints which led away from Synth, along the rooftop, and back down inside the shrine. But even these were beginning to fade as fresh flakes fell on them. It had been a long time since he had been caught in the snow, unable to go home. He hadn't had to sleep in the shrine for a long many seasons, and he had tried to avoid doing so because of that last experience he'd had.
Upon recalling that experience, Synth felt shivers crawl up his back. He remembered that he shouldn't be out at night, and that he needed to go inside the shrine and lock the doors. He'd been sitting and thinking here too long, and the sun had set unseen behind the clouds without his noticing.
He tried to quietly bring himself to his feet, but as he turned his head, he saw what he feared; there were small footprints leading up and down the roof to where his back had been turned. They were small, and would probably be seen as those of a baby's to anyone else. There was no sign of them now, and he expected to hear no sound of them, but he couldn't also expect it to stay that way. He shuffled back to the edge of the roof, toward the ladder which leant there on the edge, but before he could reach it, it slipped from view.
He saw something scurry off in the shadows below, just before he saw the ladder land on its side, with a clink, but he could see nothing clearly in the fog and snow. He looked around him as he began to hear sounds of scurrying and heavy breathing all around the edge of the roof. He took steps slowly backward, inching back up the rooftop, until he saw one small hand, which could be described as human except for it's color. It was as black as night, as if it were made of nothing but ashes, and it clung to the edge of the roof. Behind it, a face began to rise, but this bore no resemblance to any man or woman. It had large eyes, but very little of it could be seen, nor had ever been seen. These were the creatures of the Northlands, and they didn't venture as far as the village, but occasionally they were seen around this shrine. That was why Synth wasn't supposed to stay there overnight, and if he must, he should be shut in until dawn.
His memory of these creatures ended with his being able to outrun them, as they were rather slow, and running into the protection of the shrine walls. He couldn't see now how this situation could end with any protection. He was much too high to jump to the ground, although he might as a last resort, risking many broken bones.
But now, he realized, that was nearly out of the question, as the creatures poured up onto the roof like thick, black jelly dripping upwards. They moved like shadows, longer and thinner than seemed natural, and he could hear their hungry breathing all around him. There were too many to count, as they blended together to his eyes, but they were enough for him to see that there was no break in their line. They were smart somehow, he realized with another shiver, and he wouldn't get out of this unharmed. He quickly counted off options in his mind, until there was no other choice.
The creatures were short, standing on two legs, but not coming nearly to his shoulders. He ran at them, readying himself to leap headlong over them, and then brace himself for a painful impact on the rocky ground below, but he lost his footing on the slippery wet tile, and found himself tumbling toward the knees of one of the creatures.
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